


Giddy

by tubbyk



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 10:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17181122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tubbyk/pseuds/tubbyk
Summary: A bit of schmoopy fluff dedicated to all those lovely readers who have encouraged the writers this year. Merry Christmas!





	Giddy

Aramis had said it first, of course. In the middle of an enthusiastic coupling, voice thick with passion, eyes dark with desire, he’d said the words – _I love you_ – then he’d gone on to repeat them a thousand times hence. 

Porthos played that moment over and over in his head just as many times. Imagined himself uttering those words back in a way that was more fitting or bolder or better then simply choking up with emotion and burying his head in a familiar neck instead as Aramis laughed softly and whispered words of comfort and love.

Initially, Porthos had tied himself up in knots trying to find the right moment, the appropriate words, trying to prepare the universe for a declaration of such enormity that it would surely stutter and need to catch its breath. He never did find the right moment and rather than taking offence, Aramis began to gently tease him about the lack of love he felt. 

It was all rubbish of course. Aramis would sigh dramatically and declare himself neglected even as Porthos kissed and nibbled a path up his thigh after a long evening of exertions between those legs then climbed up his body to claim his mouth and roughly kiss away the falsehoods. 

Aramis would just laugh and proclaim himself to be withering away due to being so unloved, even as Porthos pulled him into a tight embrace and bit the lobe of his ear as punishment, which they both knew was anything but.

The joke played on, the seasons changed, the nights grew shorter, then longer, then spring came but brought no fitting words or perfect moments for Porthos to utter his phrase. 

Now Summer cast her warmth down onto the garrison and the eager recruits tried to ignore the lure of her brilliance in favour of the lessons offered to them by the master marksman.

Porthos settled on the bench, his back to the table, legs stretched out, eyes closed tight, and tipped his head back decadently to welcome the sun on his skin.

Despite the lack of blood it produced, the knock on the head the day before had left him giddy for long enough to cause concern and any attempts to perform duties today had been rejected outright by all and sundry. He lay in bed for some time initially, to pacify the physician, to get his bearings as the world spun, and Aramis agreed with the instruction to rest, so much so that he’d insisted on sleeping in another bed to give Porthos the chance to recover. But he’d also been the one who had kissed Porthos awake to inform him that he was heading off to perform his duties, then took an unholy interest in whether Porthos had slept entirely naked without him and proceeded to do things to him which were very much not what the physician had prescribed and which made the world spin in a very different way. 

So here he sits, trying to be visible to prove a point about his abilities not being curtailed, not willing to walk about too much in case he is publicly proven wrong, but secretly enjoying the rare chance to sit and observe while his comrades move about performing their duties around him. 

One comrade in particular he listens out for, of course. Aramis, dressed in all his finery, despite the heat of the day, accessorised to the hilt, primped and groomed to make the best impression, hat tilted to a specific angle which Aramis swears exudes authority, voice and elocution today extra smooth and exacting to leave nothing to chance. 

It would be easier to open his eyes to see what is going on, but Porthos keeps them closed, listens intently, and lets the memories of this morning’s vigorous awakening mix with the sound of a dozen cadets being shown and told in no uncertain terms How Things Are Done If You Are Ever To Become A Musketeer. 

Even Porthos feels his spine snap straighter as Aramis emphasises in clipped tones exactly how one should look after one’s weapons, the importance of cleaning and re-cleaning, how one should always tend to one’s weapon after a battle before tending to one’s own bodily needs, etc, etc. 

That’s taking things a bit far, thinks Porthos, but this is Aramis, after all, and when he has a point to make, the emphasis can’t be over-exaggerated too much. 

He grins and a loud chuckle escapes him, then as he hones his senses back to what Aramis is expounding he realises that the courtyard has fallen quiet. 

Someone clears their throat and Porthos opens an eye just a fraction to find Aramis – and some dozen or so fresh-faced cadets – staring at him. 

“Gentlemen, over here we have someone who finds my instructions amusing and doubts their veracity.”

Still with his face tipped up to the sun, Porthos says nothing but gives another throaty chuckle and keeps watching Aramis through the slit of his right eye. 

“As a musketeer you will always have your critics, be they Red Guards, Spanish sympathisers, Huguenots or other musketeers who are wholly unappreciative of the finer aspects of weaponry care.”

A couple of the recruits chuckle and Aramis looks back over his shoulder at the group. 

“Another important lesson for you to learn is this one: before finding mirth in another, it pays to know who you are laughing at and what they are capable of. That man over there - despite having questionable standards when it comes to weaponry maintenance - is the best fighter in all of Paris. I’ve seen him dismember a whole regiment of Spanish – and their horses - in one afternoon and barely break sweat. His name is Porthos, he’s the finest musketeer I know and those of you who laughed at him will be pleased to know that he has noted your amusement and will be singling you out to demonstrate hand to hand combat against him in the coming days.”

Porthos keeps a straight face, barely, even as Aramis winks at him in delight before setting his features and turning back to the cadets, some of whom have visibly paled.

Relaxing again, Porthos can’t hold back a smile. He knows what that was all about. What Aramis was up to. His chuckle hadn’t bothered him. The only reason Aramis halted his instructions was to let Porthos know that he knew he was there. 

He wonders if any of the cadets can tell what the other side of Aramis is like. The Aramis they haven’t been introduced to yet. The one not meticulous about his appearance, the one who likes someone else to be in charge. The one who resembles a bohemian. Not just a bohemian but one who is unravelling at the seams. A dishevelled mess. One boot rolled down. One left up. Shirt askew and braies akimbo. 

Sleepy Aramis, getting so tangled in the sheets in his slumber that he once rolled over and fell out of bed in an ungainly heap. The Aramis who threatened Porthos with an eternity of silent anger if he told anybody, only to not shut up for days when it became clear from their mirth and re-enactments that Athos and d’Artagnan were well aware of what had happened.

Eventually, as the cadets are moved off by Treville to take a break, Porthos smiles in expectation as he watches Aramis slowly walk towards him, sloughing off clothing and unlacing ties, desperate to expose his skin to some air for relief from the heat. Then after a quick look around to ensure the cadets at least aren’t watching, he diverts to the well and fetches up a bucket of water, takes a scoop with his hand and sips noisily to relieve his parched mouth, then up and tips the rest of the water over his head, spluttering in outrage at the unexpected cold and shaking off the excess droplets.

Porthos can’t help but laugh and falls even more deeply in love. 

This is his Aramis. Unguarded, uninhibited, and someone who can make Porthos come completely undone with just a smile. 

Another bucket of water is pulled from the well and it slips as it reaches the top, causing Aramis to jerk and dive his hands forward to catch it underneath.

He succeeds in saving it, but there is much cursing and he’s flicking his hand about as he approaches Porthos and is clearly in some pain. 

“What’s all that fuss about?”

“Splmmpprrrs,” comes the reply as Aramis sucks his finger, frowning. 

“Splinters,” he clarifies, kicking the errant bucket away and straddling the bench so he sits close, directly in front of Porthos. 

“Bad?”

“A mortal flesh wound.”

“Hah. Liar.”

But Porthos takes Aramis’ hand in his and studies it carefully. 

“You got some gooduns in there. Nice juicy bit o’ wood in your index finger is right in under your skin. Wouldn’t surprise me if we have to amputate.”

Aramis just makes a rude noise and slaps Porthos on his thigh with his uninjured hand. He then unpins an elaborate brooch from his lapel and gives it to Porthos. 

“Use that to gouge it out then get some tweezers if you can’t pick it out with your fingers. Gently!”

Porthos eyes the brooch, then Aramis, raises an eyebrow, then puts on his most disappointed air.

“One day we gotta talk about all this jewellery.”

Aramis ignores him and nods at his finger. 

“It’s my sword hand,” he whines, bending in to supervise as Porthos holds his hand tight and begins to dig the pin into his skin to try to reach the biggest splinter. 

Aramis squeaks and squawks and wriggles but Porthos holds his hand still and picks out the splinters one by one, eventually plucking out the biggest culprit and holding it out on the tip of his finger for Aramis to see.

Porthos chuffs in amusement as Aramis whines again and sucks on his finger. 

“Look at you. Big, tough musketeer makin’ a fuss over a silly little splinter.”

“When I die from some kind of splinter complication you’ll be sorry.”

“Splinter complications are a thing, are they?” Porthos chuckles.

“Very likely they are,” insists Aramis. 

“I think someone’s bein’ a bit dramatic.”

Aramis makes a noise of displeasure and waves his finger in front of Porthos’ nose.

“On my gravestone they’ll mention the tragedy that befell me when I died of Splinter Complications.”

Porthos throws back his head and roars with laughter, trying to ignore the way it makes the courtyard warp and sway. 

Aramis feigns indignation and adds that the gravestone would also mention “The Disappointing Lack of Support from my Supposed Best Friend, Monsieur du Vallon.”

After that, Porthos’ booming laughter descends into uncontrollable giggles which is always, always guaranteed to send Aramis capitulating into laughter. 

Helpless with mirth, Porthos cups Aramis around the neck and gently butts their heads together. It’s only for a second. They’re not alone in the yard and their laughter has already drawn attention, so a small touch, a tiny moment of affection before withdrawing, is all they can afford. 

But it’s enough time for Porthos to meet Aramis’ eyes and through his smile state simply, “God, I love you.”

There is a beat, a moment as Aramis draws back and inhales, eyes widening and quickly grown dark with interest. 

Porthos' smile softens and he clarifies, “I do, you know,” wondering if he should repeat it again when there is no response, but around them the sound of swords clashing, someone laughing, voices offering advice to those being tutored in the art of combat, breaks the spell. 

Aramis is still looking at him, features set in a look of surprise, mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised. He blinks as the swords clash again then glances sideways as someone - d’Artagnan it turns out - yells out a greeting as he rides in. 

Slightly embarrassed and abashed, Porthos waits for a response. After all, this is Aramis. There’s no way he won’t have anything to say after the long-awaited declaration of love. 

But Aramis scans the courtyard, taking in everything that’s happening and everyone who’s watching and when he turns back his features are set in an expression of delight – the type of rote expression he wears a hundred times a day as he thrills over a new feather for his hat or a particularly tasty ale or simply because the sun is shining - and he straightens up his uniform, reaches for his hat, and as he settles it on his head – _just so_ – he remarks brightly, “Well, of course, how could you not?”

Then d’Artagnan is summoning Aramis over and a cadet is approaching him also to ask a question about his arquebus and Athos is descending from Treville’s office and he’s just told Aramis that he loved him and suddenly Porthos feels overwhelmed and dizzy again and it is all too much to take in. 

He rises shakily and stumbles away from the bench before Athos can reach it and delay his departure. There are too many men crowded around the barracks for him to head back to his room unheeded, so he heads in the direction of the stables instead - anywhere for peace and quiet – a place to think and consider what has just happened. 

And what _has_ just happened? 

As Porthos gropes his way unsteadily along the wall for support he finally makes it inside and leans up against the stable wall and he has to admit – disappointingly – that not much _did_ happen.

Maybe he didn’t say it with enough conviction? Maybe he’d been laughing and smiling too much and the import had been lost? Perhaps he and Aramis have been in love for so long that the actual words don’t matter?

It’s very unlike Porthos to feel uncertain and weepy but he is so thrown by Aramis’ reaction - or lack thereof - that he sits down on his haunches and buries his face in his hands.

Brisk footsteps approach and he looks up to see d’Artagnan peering around the corner of the old stable door. 

“Good,” says the Gascon, addressing Porthos with that single word and a large grin. Then his head disappears and _“He’s in here!”_ is yelled loudly into the distance. 

Unhappy at the intrusion, Porthos pushes himself to standing, tries not to wobble, and staggers further into the stables, finding an empty stall at the end in which to compose himself, clutching the support post tight with a jittery hand. 

“There you are,” comes a familiar voice and he glances up to see Athos giving him a grin which looks heavily laced with reprimand. 

“You stay here and guard the main entrance,” Athos orders d’Artagnan. “I’ll take the back.”

“Whoa, what? No, I’ll take the back.” At Athos’ raised eyebrow, d’Artagnan raises his hands beside him. “I’m way too young to be exposed to whatever might come next.”

“I’m older, that is true, but that is why I get to choose which door I guard and I choose to not be within range of any noises that might upset my delicate sensibilities.”

“What about _my_ delicate sensibilities?” d’Artagnan looks wounded and puts a hand over his heart. “I’m way more innocent than you.”

Athos remains unconvinced about whatever it is they’re arguing about. “All the more reason for you to remain here so you can toughen up a bit.” Something catches his eye outside and he punches the young musketeer lightly on the arm and begins to stride off. 

As his footsteps disappear into the distance on the soft, freshly-laid straw, new footsteps can be heard moving rapidly toward the stable. 

D’Artagnan pokes his head outside and grins and before the newcomer comes into Porthos’ view d’Artagnan says aloud in a very firm voice, “The only creature I want to see and hear being ridden in these stables is a horse, you hear me?”

Aramis barely registers the remark and practically flies around the corner of the stables, looking around wildly before his eyes settle on Porthos, who is peering curiously around the corner of the stall. 

“I’ve been looking for you!” he cries, and he races forward and throws himself at Porthos. 

This isn’t a new thing. It’s not common but it has happened before. Aramis launching himself fully at Porthos and Porthos catching him in his giant arms and literally sweeping him off his feet before they settle into a tangle of laughter and limbs. But that was what happened when Porthos was fit and well and not giddy and physically unsettled. Caught unaware, as Aramis barrels into him, Porthos can do no more than wrap his arms around him and let the momentum tip them both backwards onto the – hopefully – soft and substantial layer of straw. 

They both land with an _‘oof’_ and Porthos lays there, winded, head spinning even more if possible, and waits for the apology that is bound to come. 

“In less than five minutes I have to run the cadets through the finer points of firing a musket. Your timing really is abysmal, isn’t it?” declares Aramis, looking down at Porthos with a goofy grin and plucking a piece of straw from his hair. 

“My timing? Whaddya mean?”

That gets him a giggle and a long, deep kiss.

“You know exactly what I mean.” 

Porthos doesn’t, which is why he frowns and tries to push Aramis off him so he can pick himself up off the ground. But Aramis isn’t having any of it and locks his arms either side of Porthos’ head, refusing to budge. 

Exasperated, Porthos shakes his head and makes a noise of displeasure. 

“What’s got into you? Thought I was the one who had the bump to the noggin’?

That makes Aramis laugh and he smoothes his hands over Porthos’ brow, his hair, the large dark lump on his forehead which is the cause of his infirmary. Then he cradles Porthos’ face in his hands and places a chaste kiss on his cheek. When he raises his mouth he doesn’t raise it far and Porthos can see all the mischief and affection and love in his eyes that he cherishes so dearly. 

“Come on, ‘Mis,” he says with a gentle gruffness that only he can effect, “What’s goin’ on?”

“You really don’t know?”

Porthos just sighs and shrugs his shoulders, making Aramis laugh again as he sways on the vast chest with the movement. 

“You love me,” whispers Aramis with clear delight. 

“You know I do,” Porthos complains, feeling unnecessarily petulant but increasingly – and somewhat thrillingly - aware of what might be going on. 

“I know you do but I’ve never heard you say that you do. And I never thought that when you did say it to me you’d do it when we had an audience and some cadets to attend to.”

“Well at least now you know,” teases Porthos, trying hard to retain his scowl and an appropriate level of grumpiness. 

“Say it again.”

“It’s taken me a year to say it at all. Might take another few years before I can say it again.”

“Now you’re being cruel,” whines Aramis, as he peppers Porthos’ face and neck with kisses until he makes them both laugh. 

Porthos pulls back from the increasingly sloppy kisses with a chuckle. 

“You know I’m not hasty ‘bout these things.”

“Unlike me, you mean.”

“You gotta admit, you’re pretty free and easy with love an’ the like.”

That earns Porthos a nip on his lower lip. 

“How dare you! Free and easy indeed. We’re just different beasts, you and I. To me, words are a gift, unlimited in their possibilities, to be used every day, expressions to be lavished generously wherever possible. So if I think that I love you, I will say so, every hour of every day if necessary.” He braces himself up over Porthos and studies his face, his lips, his nose, his eyes. “You, my friend, treat words like diamonds. Precious treasures, not to be wasted. I know you love me. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice, feel it as you move inside me, wrapping me tight in your arms. I know you love me, I do, but to have heard you say it …”

Overcome, Aramis makes to bury his head in Porthos’ neck, but strong hands cup his jaw and familiar lips claim his in a bruising kiss.

“You love me,” whispers Aramis, still emotional. 

“I reckon I do, but it could just be the bump on my head. I’m a bit giddy you know.”

“Tell me again.”

“Aramis….”

“ _Please_. You know I covet every word you say, especially when it’s about me.”

They both laugh at that, then kiss and stare at each other for a long moment, the world outside their arms ceasing to exist, the words once more on the tip of Porthos’ tongue, when a cough and a hammering on the main stable door interrupts their thoughts and intentions. 

“Aramis,” comes d’Artagnan’s sing-song voice, “I do believe that Treville is looking for you to begin your next lesson and it looks like he’s going to come over here any moment now, so if you gentlemen wouldn’t mind ceasing to do what you’ve probably already done, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” comes Athos’ voice from the rear of the stables. 

“It was terrible. I distinctly heard kissing.”

“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to them.”

Porthos swaps a wry look with Aramis as their friends chuckle outside then make a sudden loud greeting to Captain Treville in warning. 

“We’re never gonna live this down,” rues Porthos.

“Not if Treville catches us like this, no,” grunts Aramis as he pushes himself back up to standing, stretching a hand out to help Porthos rise. 

As they dust each other down, remove any errant bits of hay and straighten each other’s clothes to a vaguely respectable degree, Treville barks out Aramis’ name.

“Coming, Sir!” he splutters, “Porthos has just had another dizzy moment and I was just helping him find his balance.”

“Well he’d better have an extra day off then if he’s that unwell,” comes the grumpy conclusion from outside. 

Hands on hips, Porthos scowls and mouths, “ _thank you very much,”_ to which Aramis merely shrugs and points to the large bruise on his forehead then kisses him by way of apology, then kisses him again by way of not being able to help it, then begins to kiss him again when … 

“Aramis! I have a dozen cadets waiting who are learning a very bad lesson from you about tardiness.”

“I really am coming, Captain!” That bit is yelled out loud, but then he mutters under his breath for Porthos' ears alone, "Or I soon would be if I had five more minutes to get us both naked."

“Ten seconds or I’ll never put you on duty with Porthos again.”

Aramis and Porthos freeze, stare at each other, mortified. Then Aramis kisses Porthos one last time, grabs his hat and scampers away – only to poke his head around the stall one last time with a second to go. 

“Please tell me again!” he hisses. 

Disbelieving, Porthos mouths “I love you” then cringes as Aramis lets out a loud, victorious ‘Whooohooo!” and flees.

Exhausted, Porthos collapses against the wall of the stable then slides down to sitting. His head is decidedly fuzzy now and he feels another hysterical giggle growing deep in his chest that he doesnt seem able to quell. 

He thinks of Aramis, and his short-lived belief that saying ‘I love you’ had meant so little to him and realises now how misguided he’d been. Of course it matters. Of course Aramis would be delirious with joy. How could he have imagined otherwise? This was Aramis, after all, a fervent hoarder of affections if ever there was one. 

A noise to his right makes Porthos look up. Two smirking faces look down at him. 

“A tad worn out, are you, Porthos?” grins d’Artagnan. 

“I’m a bit giddy, yeah,” admits Porthos wearily. 

Athos shrugs and says with a drier-than-usual air, “Aramis tends to have that effect on people.” 

“What? No, I’m giddy from the bump on my head.”

They glance at each other, clearly unconvinced. 

Porthos frowns and points to the large lump on his forehead. 

“Injured, remember? Giddy because of this.”

Both men come forward to help lift Porthos to standing, all the while ignoring his protests. 

“Come on Romeo, that’s enough excitement from you today.”

“The life of a lothario is certainly a taxing one, isn’t it?”

They half-support, half-carry Porthos outside and slowly made their way across the courtyard to the barracks. They draw the attention of Treville, who is glowering down from the balcony. 

Porthos catches the Captain’s discerning eye and groans. He knows what’s coming

“You’re off for the rest of the week, Porthos.”

“But Captain ….!”

“Argue and I’ll make it two weeks.”

Porthos slumps down with annoyance, muttering under his breath and cursing both Treville and Aramis. 

He glances up briefly to see the group of cadets watching the proceedings with interest, although none of them are smiling, perhaps recalling Aramis’ earlier warning to them. 

Porthos shifts his gaze to see the culprit in question staring at him, looking mildly surprised and a tad sheepish.

Aramis doffs his hat. 

“Everything all right gentlemen?” he enquires. 

“Perfectly fine,” huffs Athos, trying to adjust his hold under Porthos’ shoulder and straining under the weight.

“He’s just a bit giddy,” clarifies d’Artagnan through gritted teeth. 

Aramis’ laugh rings out clear and light and makes Porthos look up. Their eyes meet for a second and with his back turned to the cadets, Aramis winks at him. 

“Well, yes, I do have that effect on people.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aaarrrrrgggghhhh. Is it 'effect' or 'affect'? Grammar is not my friend, even when I google. If anybody knows definitively what it should be at the end there, let me know.


End file.
